


It's a Hit! Or, an Irresponsible Free Market

by SheldonTheWhale



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Conspiracy, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Doctor Who References, Explicit Language, Friendship, Gen, Humor, No Romance, This Was Written in Detention, Time Travel, Why is This the First Thing I Post?, first fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28866426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheldonTheWhale/pseuds/SheldonTheWhale
Summary: “The Agency is nearly dead, we both know that. And soon clients who wish for jobs dealing with the past or future will undeniably start coming to us,” she started.Allen, who was previously lounging, sat up straight. “You said we would never deal with that kind of stuff.”“I understand. But where there is a demand, there must be a supply.”----------------------------------------------------------Times are changing in the year 5,039, and time travel hits will always be in demand. Against his better judgement, Allen Canters accepts the job to remove a certain pesky child-earl from history. He's the best of the best, and will do anything to finish a mission. Now, if only that damn butler would get out of the way...
Relationships: ciel phantomhive & sebastian michaelis
Kudos: 5





	1. Time Travel? But that's not my industry!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this hellbeast of a fic was written in after school detention in 2014. It was done on scrap notebook paper and hidden among my things for seven fucking years. Hell, I only found it while cleaning up my old stuff as I prepare to move out. 
> 
> I'll be treating it as a historical work and just transcribing what's written, editing for grammar and word flow (and removing some surprisingly insensitive shit, I was a horrid child). Not edited, but I'd appreciate it if you let me know about any errors. 
> 
> Last chance to turn back ya weebs :D

In a bed, in a lavish apartment on the third level of the city, was a man. A man who slept soundlessly, and very still. If one didn’t know the man better, they’d think he were dead. If they checked his pulse, they’d find it slow enough for them to still think him dead. But no, this brown-haired blue-eyed man was not dead, merely asleep. However, given his lifestyle, playing dead was probably a good idea.

Allen Cheshire Canters was a killer. It’s simply what he did, for a handsome pay of course. This man worked for a place known as the Corporation, a growing company in the business of killing those who got in the way of their clients. Once a side division of the Agency – another organization dealing with similar matters but also time travel – the Corporation was a black-market business fronting as a college. Fortunately, the agency was dying. Even citizens of the upper levels knew of it now. It wouldn’t be long until the organization withered and died altogether.

Allen rose, now awake, exactly one minute before his alarm sounded. It made its incessant chime at precisely 5:00am, June 7th, 5,039. He got out of bed, showered, dressed, and ate breakfast alone as per usual. At exactly 5:15am – the man was a fast waker/showerer/dresser/eater, but not a fast lover – Allen walked out the door onto a platform, waiting for the monorail.

Ever so silent, the train came down its line and took him away to his job as a ‘professor’ at the university.

**ACC**

“Hey, Allen, what’s the password for my desk again?” A young man asked his senior coworker. His name was T.J., and he was a sandy-blond fuckwad who’s sole purpose in life was to piss Allen off. A perfect example of this would be right now, as T.J. forgot the passcode to unlock his desk for the eighth time today.

Allen groaned while filling out his report on his last mission, to end the life of a pigeon who kept shitting on his client. But, because said client didn’t know exactly which pigeon was shitting on him, he’d asked for all the pigeons in this massive city to be killed, even the baby ones. At least Allen had had a fair number of feathers to sell to the local craft store.

The assassin looked up to see his new coworker – and apprentice, unfortunately – leaning on the metal framed doorway to his office. How the boy even got himself promoted, Allen would never know. _He isn’t exactly well endowed_ , he thought, remembering an unimpressive glimpse in the gym showers.

T.J., true to form, didn’t notice his coworker’s ire. “Hey man, I just wanna get my snickers out the drawer, gimmie the code!” He complained. T.J. moved over to the front of Allen’s desk and leaned on it, his arms supporting most of his weight.

“This is the eighth time you’ve asked me, and it’s only 12:10pm,” Allen stated plainly.

“Hey! Don’t make me feel crappy with your _facts_ and shit pretty boy-“

Allen could name several politicians who resembled this man-child.

“-you can’t stop me from breaking in!” T.J. yelled.

Now that would be a problem. If the asshole somehow _did_ manage to break into his desk, then the whole building would be on lockdown and he would have one hell of an incident report to write.

Allen sighed, “zero zero zero zero.”

With a smirk of victory, T.J. swaggered out of the room. The Hitler of pigeons went back to his work, and when that was done, he simply watched the news.

“-to wake up and see all of our city’s beautiful avian friends dead in the streets. Top scientists from around the world have arrived to try and find out the cause of this phenomenon. In fear of such an event happening to our species, mankind has taken to providing offerings to a giant pigeon statue, known only as ‘Coo Coo’.” The national news showed a short clip of people ‘pleasuring’ a bronze pigeon.

Allen sighed and shook his head. Once they built the third level of the city, some people went mad. He, personally, blamed it on the hydrogen fueled engines that held the structure together. They probably leaked into people’s homes and let their logic leave them.

Either that or the human race really was turning to shit. Allen, ever the optimist, believed the former.

He was pulled away from his thoughts as a blue-haired woman in a grey and silver pants suit knocked on his open door, clipboard in hand. She was the classic naïve young girl just hired last week. Going by the tired look in her eyes, he’d give it another three days before the poor thing snapped.

“Ms. Mulligan wishes to see you, sir,” she said in a squeaky voice.

With another sigh, Allen stood and stretched. “Alright, I’ll head down in a minute.” The assassin reached down to enter the keycode to his desk and retrieve his gun. She lingered by the door, so he addressed her again, “something wrong?”

The assistant fidgeted, “she asked me to escort you, sir.”

Allen narrowed his eyes, “why?”

“I-I don’t know. She just… said so.” The girl was terrified now. That was the thing about this job. You weren’t really fired, just ‘taken care of’. He chose to ignore her and headed out into the hallway, minding the clicking of her heels behind him.

Allen’s office was on the fifth floor of the sixth level, the highest in the city. The building was the second largest, with the agency being the first.

His minder stopped following as his hand touched the handle to the glass door of Mulligan’s office. He entered the wide-open space and admired it’s perfect view of the most beautiful level of the city, the only place you could still see the sky. Allen plopped down on the white leather sofa in the sitting area, his feet propped up on the glass coffee table.

“You called?”

Clarissa Mulligan was a stout woman who probably slept in the scowl she constantly wore. Her salt and pepper hair was cropped short around the ears, and those piercing honey-colored eyes bore into his soul. She was dressed in a frilly red blouse meant for someone half her age, and yet his boss pulled it off flawlessly. Her slacks were charcoal, and she wore grey stilettos – which probably held _actual_ stilettos – with red bottoms.

“The Agency is nearly dead, we both know that. And soon clients who wish for jobs dealing with the past or future will undeniably start coming to us,” she started.

Allen, who was previously lounging, sat up straight. “You said we would never deal with that kind of stuff.”

“I understand. But where there is a demand, there must be a supply.”

“Then what do you want me for?”

“You’re our most trusted and efficient agent, Allen. This last job has proven that.”

“You had me snap the necks of innocent fledglings and smash eggs on rooftops,” he growled, remembering the bloody night.

“Which is why you will be the first Corporate agent assigned a mission involving time travel.” Her scowl shifted into a greedy smile. This new client undoubtedly had deep pockets.

“All because I killed a few thousand pigeons? On that basis why not replace me with a cat?” He sat back and crossed his arms.

Mulligan picked up a silver suitcase that had been lying on her glass desk. She walked over to the thirty-three-year-old and set the case down on the coffee table.

“Inside you will find your target information and vortex manipulator. I trust you know how to use it?”

“Regrettably…” he grumbled. Standing with the box in hand, Allen turned towards the door.

“Seeing as there’s no way to determine the length of time it will take you to complete this assignment, there is a timer on the device.”

He stopped and looked back, “what?”

“The vortex manipulator will function for one week after it’s initial use. After that time, it will self-destruct,” she informed with a coy smile and steely eyes.

“That seems like a waste,” he mumbled.

“A necessary one, I assure you.”

Allen left the room, most definitely unassured. As he walked through the long hallway back to his office, people parted to give him space. Allen Canters was undoubtedly the best assassin in the entire corporation, and was feared by his colleagues. Some glanced at him once he’d passed, glaring daggers at his back. He felt them all, but ignored it. If there was to be a fight, he knew who’d win.

Once in his office he set the suitcase down on his desk and undid the buttons of his silk suit. The assassin sank into his plush office chair and clicked open the case, revealing his vortex manipulator. Sliding the device around his wrist, he took out the target dossier.

Apparently, he was to kill a child named Ciel Phantomhive. The child bit was nothing new, though it never sat well with him. It was the photo that was bothersome. The kid looked like a complete wanker. Underneath the image lay several pages of information, most describing how several attempts on his life had been made. There was a section on the household servants, blaming them as the source of this problem, especially the butler.

_Wait, servants?_

His eyes skimmed over the date for the start of his mission. January 23rd, 1,889.

“Well, shit,” Allen cursed. He’d have to leave nearly all his gear behind.

**ACC**

Back in his apartment, Allen burned the papers regarding his target. He’d memorized the information thoroughly and couldn’t risk someone seeing the files. He didn’t need to worry about his prints being on the case, no Corporate agents had fingerprints, after all.

Shedding his suit, shirt and undershirt, Allen walked down the hall past the kitchen to his bedroom. He used his foot to kick a button under the bed before toeing the dress shoes off. The bed moved aside to reveal a large steel hatch in the floor. After putting in a keycode, the door swung upwards and stairs were found leading down into a hidden room.

By now, Allen was stripped down to his boxers. He trotted into the steel and glass hidden room loaded with various knives, guns and ammo. The assassin went to the island in the middle of the room and removed his boxers – no I shall not describe – to replace them with compression shorts. On top of that went black cargo pants, knee-high socks and cargo boots. His torso was covered by a thick black turtleneck sweater, and framed by a harness that allowed him to hold two handguns under his arms. He hid a knife in his boot and a smaller gun down the back of his pants.

“Just in case,” he told himself.

Once equipped, Allen lifted his arm. With the tapping of a few buttons the vortex manipulator flickered to life. The killer topped his ensemble with a dark peacoat and glared down at the tech on his wrist. Hesitantly, one last button was pressed and with the sound of thunder he was gone.


	2. Polyester in 1889

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, electric boogaloo.
> 
> Just a note, in case it isn't obvious, _itallics_ are for thoughts. 
> 
> Updates should be every few days, less or more depending on how long the chapters are.

In the very center of London, on January 23rd, 1889, at 1:37am, a terrible sound tore through the air. With the pounding of thunder and a flash of light, a man dropped from twenty-five feet above the roof of a house. Gasping, he fell down an rolled his landing to prevent injury.

Allen ran across the roof onto a chimney that was puffing out smoke and heat. He’d never been a fan of the cold. Standing on the outer edge and avoiding the acrid plumes, the assassin observed this foreign city. It was oddly calming, if primitive. He glanced up at the stars and turned west where, if his info was right, his target’s home lay. Allen dropped down into the alleyway below, like a badass.

The hitman strolled out onto the street with his hands in his coat pockets and his collar flipped up. He was getting a feel for the atmosphere of this city. The uneven cobblestones under his feet, the unpleasant winter breeze, the clothes people wore – which he was sure made him stand out, but of course the Corporation didn’t yet have a period clothing department like the Agency. Still, the only characters out right now looked shady anyway; even the prostitutes were off the freezing streets.

The information he’d been given proved accurate, and within the next six hours or so he was twenty feet from the edge of a wood that in turn opened up into a clearing. In the midst of said clearing sat a big ass house.

He’d never seen anything like it before. The house was made of stone, a material much too heavy to be used for construction in the levels of the city he knew. The only level that could have stone would be the lowest. But even he never ventured there, where the lights didn’t work, where the sewage went and where the council had taken to dumping the more insane citizens. Unethical, sure, but no one could be bothered enough to care.

There were also plants in the past, which was a novelty for him. And not just a sparse covering here and there, perfectly trimmed and in pots, but growing right up out of the fucking _ground_. The man who’d been raised breathing city air, adapting to survive and fight in a tougher climate, suddenly found himself at a distinct advantage in the past.

Allen stayed in the forest for a good while, so it was nearly nine when the front door opened to reveal his target. If he looked like an asshole in the picture then the boy was a raging douche now, given his scowl and the stilted way he walked – and with a pimp cane, no less.

_I’ll probably be doing the world a favor, here._ He thought, suddenly empathizing with his unknown client. A kid like this with all that power? Who knew what kind of monster he’d grow into?

Which probably should have been in the dossier, but no matter. A job was a job.

The butler was another story. He glided out of the house with the sort of confidence that Allen only saw in his most difficult opponents. The pale man also held an unearthly air about him that made Allen cautious; as far as he knew, aliens hadn’t made their way to earth just yet.

The two hopped into the waiting carriage, presumably a taxi, and left. Seeing his opportunity present itself, Allen chucked off his boots and pants to replace them with some more period appropriate trousers and shoes he’d snatched on his way here.

Somewhere in London there lay a poor man with his ass bare and his brain concussed.

He kept the coat and turtleneck, as they were warmer, and strolled right up to the front door. The assassin knocked twice and waited. If he was lucky, the steward would be in that oddly cute form of his and so the only one available to answer the door would be…

“Hello?” The maid. _Score_.

Allen turned up his charm. “Yes, hello. I am Allen Cheshire Canters. My master has sent me to deliver an important message to the earl of Phantomhive.”

The girl was putty in his hands, devolving into a blushing mess. “Oh! Uh, you see… the young master has just left on a, um, business trip, he has.”

“Oh?”

“He’ll be in London for a while, yes he will.” She kept touching the tips of her index fingers together in a nervous manner.

Allen turned to the side a little and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Ah, I see. It’s just, I’ve come _such_ a long way and, well…” Innocent blue eyes peeked up at her from under his fringe.

She opened the door and peered out at the lawn. “Oh my, did you walk all this way?!”

“Well, yes, I haven’t got a horse. And, between us, the master’s been uncaring of his books, as of late.”

“Oh dear.” She stepped aside. “Come in, come in! It’s freezing out there.”

The killer hurried inside and did a quick once-over of the foyer, not missing a single detail. He pretended to be in awe of the room. “This manor is huge,” he turned to look at Mey-Rin, “surely you can’t be the only maid?”

“Well, yes. I’m not even all that good at it too.” She blushed, but now he saw it was from embarrassment and not his dashing good looks. “Sebastian’s the one who really does all the work, even though it’s not his job! He’s amazing, he is.” _Now_ she was cherry red, a small part of him wondered just how good this Sebastian must be.

“Sebastian?”

“The head butler.” A man’s voice echoed throughout the large room. Allen had heard him enter, even though he’d tried to sneak in. The assassin turned to see a blond chef with goggles around his neck. _The fuck would a chef need welding goggles?_ Allen thought. He stood up straight with his arms crossed. A military man, indeed. “Who are you?”

Before he could say anything, the maid jumped to his defense. “He’s got a message for the master, and he walked all the way here, yes he did!”

The chef sauntered up to Allen, sizing him up. “You walked all the way here from town, in the cold?”

“Yes, I did. My name is Allen Cheshire Canters.” He dropped his charm and innocent roguishness, but not enough to disorient the maid.

“Hm. Well, the name’s Bardroy and like ya probably guessed, I’m the chef of this fine establishment,” he said, pointing to himself with his thumbs. Allen resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Oh! And my name’s Mey-Rin.” The maid piped up.

“Ho, ho, ho.” The steward ‘Hoed’ from where he’d apparently been off to the left. Allen prided himself in not flinching, but how the fuck had he not seen the Japanese man?”

“That’s Tanaka,” Bardroy informed, “and Finny’s outside. He takes care of the gardens.”

Allen adjusted his stance slightly, to better hide the outline of the knife strapped to his calf. “When do you think your master should be back?” He asked the chef.

“Eh, probably tonight, but I wouldn’t count on it.” The chef shrugged, he clearly didn’t know what to do in this situation.

Tanaka took the pause in their conversation to change into his normal form – with a plume of smoke, no less. When he did, he spoke up. “If you’ll allow me, I shall take the message to be delivered to the young master when he returns.”

Allen shook his head. “I was instructed to tell only the Earl himself, sir.”

The steward promptly deflated, frightening Allen a little.

“Well then, you’ll just have to wait until the young master returns, yes you will!” Mey-Rin said enthusiastically. “I’ll take your coat if yo-“

“No, thank you, I’m quite alright,” he cut her off. A good amount of future tech was in that pea coat, and he’d left behind as much as he could.

Through Bardroy was clearly suspicious, Mey-Rin lead him through the right door towards the back. From there she showed him the kitchen and where he’d be staying; a servant’s room. In a house this size it probably would’ve been used for more of the staff, had there been any.

They mostly left him alone for the rest of the day. He met Finny, an innocent boy who happened to be insanely strong. There was also a dog. A really big fucking dog who hadn’t been in the dossier. Allen had been tentatively petting the fucker when it turned into a naked silver-haired man who pile-drived him into the ground and proceeded to lick his face. The servants didn’t seem phased by this, claiming he was a demon hound. Interestingly, they viewed this as ‘normal.’

Towards the afternoon he patrolled the rest of the manor without being seen, memorizing the floor plan in person to pass the time. He didn’t go into the cellar though. The windowless enclosed stone space reminded him to much of how he imagined the lower levels of his city. Outside, the sun was setting when he returned to the kitchen to see Bardroy trying to cook – emphasis on _trying_.

“Bardroy?” Allen asked, perplexed. He had taken off his coat to reveal the form-fitting turtleneck – and what a nice form it was.

The chef looked up from his soon-to-be disaster and seemed surprised by Allen’s choice of clothing. “Well, seein’ as the young master might be home tonight, I was goin’ to make him dinner.” He stood up to face Allen.

“So why do you have a flamethrower-?” His accent slipped and Allen bit his lip, “fuck.”

Bardroy narrowed his eyes, “I knew you were American…” he smiled wide, the cigarette in his mouth threatening to fall. “S’good to have another Yank around, twice the firepower, eh?!” He reached out to pat Allen on the shoulder but the hitman stepped aside and the strike missed.

They stood awkwardly for a moment. Allen, feeling the need to fill the silence, muttered “Uhuh…”

The chef shook it off, walking closer to ensure he had no escape when clapping him on the back. “But why were you pretendin’ to be English?”

“It’s a nervous thing. Trying to fit in, I guess.” He shrugged. Bardroy was sympathetic for a moment, and it occurred to Allen that he may have made a friend.

Too bad he was going to kill his boss.

“Don’t you worry, no need for that kinda talk here man!” He went back to the oven.

“Bardroy-“

“Call me Bard,” he cut in, trying to get the ignition to work.

“-do you know how to cook?” Allen asked, truly concerned for his new source of information.

Bard scoffed, “just ‘cause you never go to school doesn’t mean yo don’t learn.” The pilot finally lit, and he reached for the gas knob to make the flame larger.

Allen was by his side in a second, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him, “let me cook for tonight, it’ll be the least I can do.”

The chef stood and eyed him, “you know how?”

_More than you…_ “Graduated from Boston’s finest culinary academy two years ago.” Well, it was true. He’d had to learn a bit to get close to the head chef of a five-star restaurant, who’d been his target. That, and he enjoyed cooking.

“Alright then, go at it. If you mess up, Sebastian’ll just fix it anyway,” Bard sighed, walking out of the kitchen. Apparently, this Sebastian fellow was a butler, maid, _and_ chef.

_Bet he’s the damn gardener, too,_ Allen thought snidely.

Allen set to work preparing a roasted lamb leg stuffed with potatoes, garlic, and parsley with a side of spinach. Nothing fancy; he didn’t want to outdo the butler and arouse suspicion. The others watched him in awe and helped where they could, which admittedly wasn’t often. When he was done, the _clop_ of horse shoes came from the front of the mansion.

_Fucking finally_.

The three servants ran off to greet their young master with Allen following behind more slowly.

Even though his picture was in the dossier, a still image didn’t give off the same air of superiority. Everything about this kid said control, as if he was used to owning everything and everyone around him in one form or another. Though right about now, he technically did.

The earl ignored his servants, turning to Allen straight away. _Kid’s quick_. “Bardroy, who is this?”

Bard put his hand down from his salute – which he almost certainly didn’t have to do in the first place. “Oh, uh… This is Allen Canters. He walked all the way here from London to deliver a message, but arrived just after you left, sir.”

Ciel’s one eye examined Allen from head to toe, undoubtedly questioning the odd attire. Fuck, he was so undersupplied for this mission. “That’s odd. We didn’t see anyone on the road.” The shota glared.

“I’m very easy to miss, sir,” Allen said submissively, doing his best to inflate the earl’s ego. It was then that he noticed the death glare being sent his way by the butler. _Holy shit_ , he knew evil when he saw it.

“It _was_ rather dark out this morning young master. Now, shall I prepare for dinner?” Sebastian said with a closed-eyed smile. The butler held out his hand to direct the earl to the dining room, but the boy smacked it away and walked across the foyer to the stairs.

“I’ll dine in my study tonight, Sebastian.”

“Yes, young master,” Sebastian replied cautiously. Turning to Bard, his features hardened. “Bardroy, I want you to clean up whatever mess you’ve undoubtedly made in your attempt to prepare dinner-“

“I haven’t.” The American said smartly, obviously relishing in the fact that he took the butler by surprise.

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t cook anything,” Bard clapped Allen’s back, _again,_ “our messenger friend did.” His smile was audible.

Honey-colored eyes flickered over to him immediately, narrowing, “Oh?”

“It was the least I could do, given this household’s hospitality.”

The butler glared at him again, “then please, allow me to serve the young master, and then we shall hear this message of yours.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome,” and followed Bard outside to the gardens. Mey-Rin was sitting on the steps while Finny played with the giant dog on a lawn to the right. The assassin watched as the teenager picked up a dead tree and tossed it like a stick.

Allen was deciding what to do about his message. He didn’t really have one, so in the back of his mind he was thinking of saying something funny. Like if he had a catchphrase or something, he could say it and then shoot the kid. Or he could be a badass, walk in, kill him and simply leave.

Leaving may be a problem though. In the dossier, the servants were labeled more as guards than staff. He knew from his conversations with Bard that the cook was a veteran. Finny’s super strength could definitely pose a problem. And going by the sway of her skirts hiding – not one, but two – rifles, and that keen gaze of hers, he’d put his money on Mey-Rin being a sharpshooter.

Sebastian, however, was another story. He had no obvious strengths or weaknesses. In fact, he seemed normal, fading into the background most of the time. There’d barely been more than a passing mention of him in the dossier. The oxymoron of this butler had him at odds. Nevertheless, the assassin decided not to risk it and simply treated the man as an equal in regards to danger. A high honor, for him.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the giant dog approached him and dropped the tree at his feet, shaking the ground. The dog licked his lips as Allen looked down at the drool-soaked plant.

“I can’t throw that.” He told the dog as if it understood. Pluto just tilted his head to the side.

Next to him, Bard piped up, “You don’t gotta be as strong as Finny to play with ‘em.” Pluto wagged his tail, stirring up a breeze.

Resigned, Allen got up to try and ‘play’ with the demon dog when a polite cough came from behind them. He turned to face Sebastian, who had a coy smile on his face.

“The young master may see you now,” he said patiently.

The hitman followed him inside after excusing himself from his new friends-soon-to-be-enemies. He and Sebastian walked in a stiff silence, tension apparent in the butler’s frame. They went up the stairs, through a few halls, and ended up at an elegant oak door. The butler opened it, allowing Allen to enter before following and closing the door behind them.

The assassin’s eyes fell on his target, sitting quietly at the too-large desk. “You have a message for me?”

_Showtime_.


	3. Fuck Your 14 days!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read ahead a bit and it turns out that the next chapter will be the last one, and then chap 5 is just a short epilogue. We'll definitely be done this week!

Allen glanced back at Sebastian, pointing out his presence in the room. The earl spoke up, “Sebastian, you may leave.”

“Yes, young master,” he replied. The butler bowed and exited the room.

Once they were alone, the assassin tread forward silently towards Ciel, confident and collected. “My name is Allen Cheshire Canters,” he started, “you are the Earl of Phantomhive, Ciel Phantomhive, correct?”

He raised an eyebrow at the question. “Yes.”

Allen watched him a moment longer, taking in the window behind him. Ciel Phantomhive, who at the age of ten was orphaned and kidnapped, tortured and found alongside a mysterious butler. A 13-year-old boy who ran the underworld at the will of the Queen. Allen sighed and sat down.

Criminal or no, Allen was supposed to kill a kid who – given Victorian Values™ - likely hadn’t even jacked off yet. A kid who, by all rights, should be a sociopath locked away in a mental institution. His servants would be homeless and lost without him, that much was made clear today. The killer had never ended the life of someone he sympathized with before; as long as he’d been in the business, it’d simply never happened. It’s what made him the best at this job.

Another thing was bothering him about this mission. Why would Mulligan have his first-time travel mission be to kill _this_ kid? Maybe the Agency had simply gotten through all the Mussolinis and Kahns and all that was left in history was this scrawny little bitch, but Allen doubted it. When you fuck around with time, time tends to fuck back. Surely there was someplace, _somewhen_ else for him that could be more important? Or at least pay better.

There was only one answer staring him in the face.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Allen murmured.

“What?”

“Thirty-three and I feel like I’m eighty.” He leaned back in the overstuffed chair. This sort of thing was inevitable, but he thought he’d had a little more time.

“The hell are you playing at?” The kid looked angry now.

“I was, or will be, born in the year 5,006. I was raised by an assassin and trained to be one. On the surface, I’m a university professor but in reality I kill the unlucky bastards I’m assigned to.” Before he could finish the word ‘kill’ Sebastian was behind him, one gloved hand on his chin, the other on the top of his head, ready to twist and snap his neck. However, Allen had suspected this and ignored it, finishing his sentence, “they’re gonna send people after me for this, try to kill me. Perks of being the best, I guess, we don’t get ‘fired’.”

“You were sent from the future to kill me?” Ciel asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, but no. I quit. You’re a kid with no parents and shitty servants, doing the dirty work of a dying monarchy. They obviously didn’t expect me to succeed anyway,” he reasoned, gesturing with one hand to the insanely fast butler behind him. “And what the hell could you do to piss someone off nearly 50 centuries in the future?”

“Let him go.”

Sebastian hesitated but obeyed, moving to stand beside his master.

“Nothing, that’s what,” Allen continued, ignoring them. “A pointless mission using a dangerous technology in a dead industry.”

“Obviously, they thought you expendable.” The earl yawned. It _was_ well past his bedtime.

“Even if I did kill you, somehow, why leave me the manipulator with a chance to come back? So long as I did it within the time limit.” Allen sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. It seemed like such an unnecessary risk.

“Has that time elapsed yet?” Sebastian asked.

“No.”

“Then why not simply return and ‘ask’ them?”

“…” The assassin stood slowly. “You’re right. I could at least try…”

“Finally.” Ciel rolled his eyes. “Sebastian, see him out. I’m going to bed.” The child stood and left his office with hauteur.

Sebastian watched Allen for a moment, mulling over this new information. “What did you mean by ‘a dying monarchy?’” he asked after some time.

Allen sighed and stood, dusting off his perfectly clean pants. “Exactly what I said.”

They headed towards the front of the mansion, steps nearly silent on the thick carpet. Actually, no, Sebastian’s steps _were_ silent. He almost floated along the ground with how he walked. Allen had seen a similar effect with some of the other races that frequented earth in the future, but the butler seemed perfectly human enough. _Then again,_ he thought chidingly, _that’s probably speciesist of me…_

Sebastian-the-maybe-human stopped at the stone steps leading from the front doors, watching stock-still as Allen walked into the dark woods beyond. As soon as the hitman was sure he was out of sight, he disappeared with a flash of light and roar of thunder.

ACC

Ciel crawled into bed in an ungentlemanly fashion, too tired to care for his pride. His servant _tsked_ and frowned, earning a glare in return.

The bluenet yawned, “today was certainly interesting.”

Sebastian smiled. He set the candelabra on the night stand next to his charge’s eyepatch and rings. “Indeed. However, I find the circumstances of his departure rather odd.”

Ciel rolled over to face the demon. “How so?”

“If he was meant to fail, I wonder how they will react to his return.”

The earl’s eyes widened a fraction for but a moment before they fell nearly shut again; the hour was late, after all. “It’s none of our concern,” the boy replied before laying down and pulling the covers up to his chin.

Sebastian’s polite smile melted into something a touch more sinister as he turned and left the room.

ACC

Allen gasped from the pain of landing back in his office. Sparks of electricity swirled around him and dissipated violently. When he calmed his breathing, his ears perked to the sound of his desk being opened.

The assassin whipped around to see T.J. sitting in his chair, trying to open the desk by typing random numbers into the keypad. The harsh beeping let him know the bastard had failed again. Allen ran over and pinned his apprentice’s hands to the desk from across it, glaring into his beady little eyes. Now way in hell would T.J. be getting those grubby little butterfingers all over _his_ vintage playboys. Hell naw.

T.J. paused and looked up at his mentor slowly, a sick glee shining in his eyes. “Headmaster, the student has arrived for detention,” he whispered. Only then did Allen notice the microphone and earpiece on his collar.

In a flash someone crashed through the door behind him, splintering the wood. Allen moved before thinking and slid his hands forward to snap T.J.’s wrists with a sickening _crunch_. The younger man screamed – like he’d never had the same tolerance training as the rest of them – as Allen placed his hands on the desk and flipped over it to land beside the T.J. He gripped the back of the blond’s head to snap his neck swiftly before hiding behind the body and chair as gunfire rained down on them. For once, his apprentice’s flabby body was good for something as he absorbed the _very unfriendly_ fire.

Whoever was behind the gun was clearly untrained, as they continued to empty the clip without waiting for him to retaliate. When they were forced to stop and reload, Allen reached into one of his drawers to grab a large black bowie knife before leaping over the desk. He was surprised to find the new girl from before standing there, clumsily reloading the machine gun. Surely there was someone more qualified for a job like this?

Taking pity on the poor girl, he used the handle of the knife to strike her temple. She fell to the ground, mostly unconscious, while he snatched up the gun and checked it quickly. Steeling himself for whoever might be in the hallway, he opened the door quickly.

Every single person he’d seen working on this floor of the Corporation was standing in the hall, watching. Even the IT guy who hated him – to this day, Allen still didn’t understand why he couldn’t click on those hot singles in his area.

It wasn’t that no one else was qualified, but that no one else was dumb enough to try.

Right in front of him stood Karen, one of the few people in this place he actually tolerated. “Mulligan wanted you gone,” she said, flipping her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair with more sass than he knew physically possible. “We sort of just deleted that memo.”

Allen nodded. “It doesn’t matter if you guys passed, she’s still got the Canadian branch. And they don’t know me.” Those poutine loving bastards would be here, and soon.

“We’ll keep you in our thoughts, Allen,” Karen said, blushing. Allen fidgeted under her gaze; she never could take a hint…

The assassin nodded and started towards the exit before reason kicked in. The Canadians went nearly as hard as the Russians. There was no way in hell he could take them on all by himself. He couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t stay.

Allen lifted his left wrist and eyed the vortex manipulator. The little countdown clock on one side told him he had nine seconds left to make his decision; before the device would cease to function. With a deep sigh, he pressed the redial button and disappeared in a burst of smoke and lightning.

ACC

It’d been a week since Sebastian had last seen that odd assassin. Nothing noteworthy had happened, other than some mishap with two girls from another reality and his master dying, then not dying due to unicorn magic, before he’d managed to send the nuisances back from whence they came.1

All in a day’s work, he supposed. 

Now, everyone’s favorite butler was patrolling the halls with a candelabra in hand. He didn’t need the light, but it was strange for humans to walk around in the dark. He was pondering the fate of the assassin when – guess who – Allen appeared right in front of him. The displacement of air put out his candles.

“Holy shit, I got it right.” He heard the young man say.

Sebastian sighed in annoyance and snapped his fingers, relighting the candles. “What a _pleasant_ surprise,” he growled out. Allen wasn’t a guest and, technically, he’d been sent to kill his dinner.

The blue-eyed one looked up at the demon and smiled, eyes closed. “Oh please, don’t die of joy on my behalf.” It unnerved Sebastian how much the look reminded him of himself. “I didn’t have anywhere to go,” he said, growing serious, “my employer wants me dead.”

_An understandable desire._ He tilted his head to the side. “And why do you think that is?”

Allen shrugged and started towards the young master’s chambers. How he knew where it was, Sebastian didn’t ponder. The human glanced at the device on his wrist. “Maybe I just got too good. Or someone paid Mulligan’s weight in gold.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Do you mind?”

“I do,” Ciel said as he opened the door from the other side. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ve got a horde of Canadians after my ass. I need your help.”

“Canadians?” The earl asked, confused.

“Don’t doubt them. Canadians are kind and peaceful on the outside, but brutal on the inside. They need to be, to battle the moose come winter.” Ciel blinked, mouth agape as Allen continued, “they’re the exact opposite of the Russians.”

“Sebastian, get him ou-“

“I can be of use to you,” Allen cut him off, glaring at the child. “The 52nd century isn’t nearly as kind as the 19th. I grew up in one of the harshest climates in the world, studying espionage and battle tactics since I could read. I’m physically evolved beyond anyone else of your time. If anything, I’m more _like_ your butler than _not_.” Sebastian raised an eyebrow at that.

“What use would I have of you, even if you were inhuman,” Ciel yawned. Why was his young master up this late anyway?

“An informant. In the city I can keep track of the bastards below your paygrade. I’m sure the Earl of Phantomhive has bigger fish to fry than petty criminals.”

He had a point. The lowlifes were a pain to keep track of even at the best of times. Lau had a firm grip on the underworld’s smuggling and drug operations, but thieves’ guilds and common gutter rats were slippery.

His young master rolled the one visible blue eye. “Are the Canadians arriving in the same manner as yourself?”

Allen smiled in an odd way that made him look more intimidating than a human had any right to be. “They’ll lock onto my position and show up within a three-hundred-meter radius.”

The earl sighed, “very well.” He turned to his butler. “Take him into the wood at least a kilometer from the manor grounds. Dispatch anyone who tries to kill him.”

“You will be unprotected young master, should one of them come to you,” Sebastian reminded him.

“Then send the servants for my protection. That’s what they’re for, are they not?” Ciel waved him away and returned to his rooms.

Allen turned to him. “Well?”

“If my young master is harmed in any way due to _your_ interference…”

The human put his hands up in mock surrender. “You’ll devour my soul. Oooohhh, I’m so scared!” He walked away.

“Only a fool wouldn’t be.” Sebastian murmured before following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 A reference to a much older fic of mine currently rotting on FF.net where it belongs.


End file.
